


Right Now Could Last Forever

by Hopelessromantic09



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Blow Jobs, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Canon-Typical Violence, Derek Has Issues, Derek Likes Stiles, Derek doesn't communicate, Derek saves Stiles a lot, Dirty Talk, Doggy Style, Drunk Dialing, Drunken Confessions, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, Growing Up, Hand Jobs, Harpies, Heartbeat Kink, Hurt Stiles, M/M, Mates, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Pack Cuddles, Pack Dynamics, Pack Feels, Protective!Derek, Ridiculous amounts of fluff, Scenting, Sexual Content, Slow Build, Songfic, Stiles likes pop music, Swearing, They Understand Each Other, Underage Drinking, Unsafe Sex, all time low - Freeform, badly-timed first kiss, hipbone kink, marking kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-25
Updated: 2013-03-25
Packaged: 2017-12-06 13:01:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/736008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopelessromantic09/pseuds/Hopelessromantic09
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Standing under the dim lights with Derek’s solid body pressed against his back and feeling the bass rock his body, Stiles knew that he could put a memory to every song the band was going to play that night. </p><p> </p><p>Or, the one in which Stiles and Derek’s relationship is mostly defined by All Time Low songs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Right Now Could Last Forever

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys!
> 
> So this fic was inspired by this picture (https://twitter.com/ImagineGaskarth/status/235577792304119809/photo/1) (aka, the shot of Stiles’ bedroom in the Season 2 finale which shows the All Time Low poster on Stiles’ wall).
> 
> I just want to thank my bestest friend Madi, who put up with three weeks of endless, pointless questions and all of my random “but, the feels!” messages. Without her, this story would be an unfinished, potentially-imaginary combination of awkward emotions. All the love goes to this girl <3.
> 
> I really wasn’t anticipating this to be so frickin’ long, but it kind of ran away from me. Sterek surprisingly writes itself. What can I say?  
> The songs that I mentioned can be found here (http://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLuxwVe6elNB8CXyt5XQTe61fH9zD1eo8K). The title of both the playlist and the story comes from “A Daydream Away” by All Time Low.
> 
> More notes at the end for potential spoilers and potential rip-offs.

Stiles first heard All Time Low in the car with his mom. They were going to the store and Stiles was about ten years old; it was a year before his mom passed away from breast cancer.

It was a normal and mundane day. Stiles sat in the front seat, bouncing his leg and chatting excitedly about how Scott and he had decided to make up an “everybody hates Jackson” club at school. His mom was smiling at him in her soft, sweet way. The only thing overly exceptional about the memory was that they were listening to some obscure radio station that his mom loved. As soon as _Jasey Rae_ , one of the songs on the recently released first album of a new band just out of high school, started up, Stiles fell in love.

To this day, they were Stiles' favorite band. One of the reasons Stiles loved them so much was because they practically had a song for everything, and it seemed to him that every song could be twisted in a way that suited his situations. They could perfectly explain rainy days with his mom, his first day of high school, his first kiss, and especially his relationship with Derek. He loved the band not only for their music but also for their meaning, the idea that even at your very worst hope is prevalent.

He had had more all time lows in his life than he'd like to remember. But still, Jack, Alex, Rian, and Zack had been the constant in his life when nothing else was, not his mom or his friends or his understanding of the world.

The Sheriff always joked that, as Stiles father, he should have guessed that Stiles was a little bit gay, even if Stiles did wear layers upon layers of plaid. John said that he should have been tipped off by the huge All Time Low poster on Stiles wall and the thumping pop music that filtered from his room when he was doing homework or researching. Stiles wasn’t obsessed or anything—he liked other music, too—but for some reason All Time Low just made _sense_.

So when Stiles surfed the net and saw that there was a concert two hours away, he immediately bought two tickets. He would graduate college just days before the show, so it was a perfect excuse to wrangle his mate into going with him.

Derek grumbled when Stiles demanded he come. The alpha didn’t hate the band—God knows Stiles plays their songs enough—but he did hate the feel of sweaty bodies pressed up against his oversensitive skin, the smell of alcohol and perfume and sex permeating his oversensitive nose, and the powerful booming of drums and guitars banging against his oversensitive eardrums. But in the end, Derek drove and Stiles bounced in his seat anxiously. There was something ridiculously thrilling about a concert; it made Stiles want to scream at the top of his lungs, have wild sex, get drunk off his ass, dance like a maniac.

And that's how they ended up standing off to the side of the dingy warehouse-turned-concert-hall, All Time Low on stage in tight jeans only a few feet away. Standing under the dim lights with Derek’s solid body pressed against his back and feeling the bass rock his body, Stiles knew that he could put a memory to every song the band was going to play that night.

When the snare started up for _Bad Enough For You_ , Stiles nodded his head to the beat in a way that, as the song went on, almost caused Stiles to head butt Derek in the nose. Derek chuckled behind him, gripping Stiles’ hips tightly and pulling him back into the wall of Derek’s chest. Stiles didn’t mind, not one bit, and as he let himself get lost in the music his mind wandered through the memories that attached themselves to the lyrics.

* * *

**Bad Enough For You**

**Paint You Wings**

_The first time Stiles saw Derek as more than a scary-ass alpha who used him as a punching bag was in the summer of 2013._

He was going to be a junior year of high school the next year. He was both nervous and excited for it, anxious at the thought of making first line, but he knew by now to enjoy his summers while they lasted. It was not a boring summer; a pack of alphas had moved in and the whole ragtag werewolf/human team was trying their best to cooperate with each other. It was one overwhelming, sticky night, coming on the back of a terrible ‘date’ with Lydia, that found Stiles alone in his backyard in the balmy summer air. He sat down heavily on the hard ground, ignored the rock that was poking into his left ass cheek, and hit his head against the side of the house. Repeatedly. His mind began to wander and, inevitably, he started to overanalyze and dissect the horrible night.

 **Stiles** always fell for the untouchable ones— the ones who were too cool for him, too gorgeous, too dangerous, too rich, too special. He was none of those things. Sometimes, when he was at his lowest, when he felt lonely and depressed and when he just wanted someone to finally find something in him that he or she thought was perfect, Stiles got angry at himself for being so _stupid_. Why did he always have to fall for people he couldn’t have?

Take Lydia for example. She was perfect in every way, permeating the air with strawberry brilliance. Stiles could have, and _actually_ had, written sonnets about her creamy, porcelain skin and her dazzling, pearly teeth. He could have painted a Leonardo of just her talented fingers, beautifully manicured and clutching a pencil daintily as she worked on her Fields Medal. Stiles believed that Lydia would have inspired Mozart to compose fifty more symphonies and that if Van Gogh had known her, he would have never cut off his ear, if only so he could hear her musical voice better.

The thing about Lydia was that even though she was an emotionally damaged teenager, she was still way out of Stiles league, and she knew it. She was prissy, bossy, headstrong, arrogant at times. She used Stiles to get what she wanted and she manipulated his love so that could feel better about herself. Stiles knew she had a dark side, knew she could be evil and unjust, but it didn't stop him from trying to win her heart. On those cold and lonely nights, Stiles sometimes wondered if her appeal wasn't mostly because she _was_ so unattainable.

Stiles tried anyways. He tried to be _just_ bad enough for her. He bought a leather jacket, grew his hair out to slick it back, changed from plaid to button down shirts. He took more Adderall in the hopes that it would stop him from bouncing and word-vomiting, that it would make him cooler and calmer and chiller. All it did was make him throw up for hours.

He got Scott to take him out more—to more parties, to the Jungle. He tried to drink, but he found it made his ADHD even worse. He tried ignoring Lydia, thinking it might attract her— girls wanted what they couldn’t have, right?

None of it worked.

It was only after Jackson got turned from kanima to werewolf and moved away (“he was over the weirdness of Beacon Hills”—yeah right, he was just over the idea of having to submit to Derek as his alpha) , leaving Lydia heartbroken and bitchier than ever, that Stiles was forced to give up. He liked to think that he was a badass, that he would keep trying until he got her, but she pushed him down too many times. It was a particularly bad bitch moment (granted she did have a lot of shit on her plate and yes he had been getting kind of creepy obsessive) that had Stiles nursing a half-empty bottle of his dad's scotch and sitting in his backyard, trying to keep the tears at bay. He wouldn’t cry, goddammit; he was not a baby, for Christ sake, and he was certainly not a fucking girl, thank you very much.

 _“I don’t_ want _you Stiles. I never did and I never will.”_

Stiles was never good at keeping his mouth shut, even when he was alone and especially not when he was upset. “Why do I even try anymore? I mean, look at the fucking history, Stiles. All she’s ever done is bitch me out… and then laugh at me. Fuck, _I_ laugh at me. Even Isaac gives me pity eyes now, and that’s the last thing I need, pity from a puppy. I mean really. He practically invented puppy-dog eyes. Oh if only Derek was here. ‘ _Wolves dumbass, not fucking dogs_!’" Stiles thought he was getting pretty good at imitating the tall, dark, and broody, if he did say so himself. He'd even gotten his eyebrows to do the _'threatening waggle of death'_ that Derek had designed.

He was somewhat enjoying his pity party of gloom, so that was of course when Mister Doom himself shows up. He came out of the woodwork, or more appropriately the forest, striding from the darkness between the ferns like a fucking serial killer which, ha, Derek _has_ already killed a few people.

On second thought, that leather jacket did _things_ to Derek's shoulders and subsequently to Stiles hormones, so maybe Derek was more like a hero in a romance movie than a serial killer.

Maybe he was both; Stiles’ worst nightmare and best dream all wrapped up in one.

And of course he chose Stiles’ lowest point to show up and stick his bossy, depressing, wet nose into Stiles’ business.

"What are you doing outside."

Derek was the only person Stiles knew that could make five words so strained. He was also the only person who could ask a question with no question mark implied. Was that even possible? How would one even write that sentence down? Was it a literary error if Stiles wrote Derek's words without a question mark, even if Derek had clearly been asking something, or was it just artistic license? Was there actually a physical license that artists got when they started doing artsy things so that they could take cool liberties like that?

"What does it look like I'm doing, Sourpants?" Derek's eyebrows looked even more dangerous than before, and Stiles wondered if eyebrows really could be described as dangerous. On Derek, he was pretty sure a flower could be threatening. Stiles sighed, long suffering in a way that was not purely theatrical and was more sincere than he'd like. "Lydia dumped me. Again."

Derek crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the side of the house. "Was she ever with you?" Somehow, the words weren't condescending the way Derek said them. Sure, they were flat, again with barely a question mark, and meant to make Stiles grimace. But the younger boy could detect no malice in the words and instead found concern buried deep under layers of musty emotional walls. Stiles didn't want to admit how the discovery made his stomach jump.

"No. I guess she never will be, either," Stiles sighed.

He was going to leave it at that, let Derek off easy and without running his mouth. He expected Derek to just walk away, move on, leave him alone like he always did because Derek didn’t really like Stiles and that wasn’t really a secret. But then the older man sat down next to him on the cold ground and grabbed the alcohol, taking a swig even though it wouldn't affect him.

"Hey! Leave some for those who can enjoy it!" Stiles grabbed the bottle back and clutched it against his chest protectively. "Why were you in the woods anyway, Creeperwolf?"

Derek had the decency to look a little embarrassed and tried to hide it by scowling. "I was out for a run and smelled you—outside, with _alcohol_. It's one in the morning, Stiles."

There was barely an explanation there, more like Derek blaming Stiles for something that he didn't even do, but Stiles guessed that it was as good as he would get. Again, he expected Derek to leave, expected his social anxiety to prohibit him from even sitting with Stiles, but Derek actually stayed until Stiles was about to pass out from tipsy exhaustion. They didn't talk much (not even Stiles which, _surprising_ ) and Stiles finished his bottle with a flourish and started to belt the lyrics to _Paint You Wings_ because let's face it, Lydia could be a fucking monster in Christian Louboutin heels when she wanted to be.

Stiles loved to bring that memory up on anniversaries and birthdays. It was pretty much the first time he saw Derek as more than a freaky, isolated alpha who had speaking difficulties and a propensity to maim. 

* * *

  **If These Sheets Were States**

_A few months later, Derek became not only non-threatening but also a potential friend._

Stiles had _If These Sheets Were States_ on a low hum in the background and it wasn’t long before his nose started to scrunch up and his eyes started to sting. He was researching, or was supposed to be, and it was just by coincidence that the song had come up on his iPod shuffle.

He knew that this specific song was supposed to be about a long distance relationship, about lovers on opposite sides of the world, about romance. But he couldn’t stop seeing his mom in every line of the song, in every strum of the guitar.

He tried to read the words on his google search screen, focus on those instead of the song, but his mind pulled him away. After reading the same sentence four times, Stiles gave up with an angry shove at his desk. He moved to his bed instead, sitting down heavily and putting his head in his hands. The song thrummed around him and pulled at his nerves and he gave up trying to hold back his tears.

_“If these sheets were the states and you were miles away I’d fold them end over end to bring you closer to me because I don’t sleep at all without you pressed up against me.”_

Stiles wished it was that easy, wished he could fold his bed sheets up and his mother would come back from wherever she had gone and lull him to sleep as she had when he was a child. He wished she was ‘miles away’ and not in some afterlife that Stiles couldn’t even imagine. He wished he did have a way to bring his mom closer to him.

_“Visions of a brighter love, I'd kill for one more day to pool my thoughts, and find the words to say.”_

He wished he could tell her once more that he loved her, that he couldn’t do it without her. He could barely breathe without her here. He had his dad, yeah, but it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t like it had been, years and eons ago, when his mom had baked cookies with him and had rocked him to sleep when he had a fever. He really, really would “ _kill for one more way to tell you how you make me better every day_ ”. Because the memory of his mom, of her kindness and her beauty and her easy cheerfulness, made him want to be a better person. When he thought of her, he wanted to save the world in her name. She made him better, nicer, kinder, gentler, even though she was gone and she wasn’t coming back. She made him want to appreciate every day for what it was because he knew that, like she had suddenly gotten cancer and passed on within months, you never knew when someone you love will be taken from you.

Stiles let himself sob. It had been so long since he had allowed himself to cry, so long since he had let down his careful walls long enough to let it all out. The ache in his heart and the throbbing in his stomach never went away and Stiles had found it easier to just ignore it and live with the pain. But now he let it overwhelm him for a little while. Hands cradling his face, he let out broken heaves with every sharp pulse of _lonely, missing, lost_.

Something clicked to his left and when he looked up he saw, through bloodshot and wet eyes, his window opening and a leather jacket pushing its way into his room. It startled Stiles enough that his tears ebbed, and he wiped at his disgustingly dripping nose with the back of his hand. Derek was there, leaning casually against his wall, awkward and imposing. His face screamed uneasiness, like he didn’t know what to do or how to act.

“What, you couldn’t smell me and let me have a few minutes to myself before barging in here and demanding answers to your stupid werewolf problems?” Stiles stood up and turned his back to the other man, grabbing the tissues by his bed and wiping his face. To be honest, he was more embarrassed than angry. Leave it to Derek to always catch Stiles at his weakest moments.

“No, I-”

When Stiles turned around, Derek looked torn, like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how to phrase it. Derek looked more vulnerable then than Stiles had ever seen him, almost as though Derek was reliving a memory or lost in his own little world and had forgotten where he was or who he was with. As Stiles watched, Derek squared his shoulders and his mask was back up. “Nothing. Tell me what you found.” Derek’s voice was back to being cold, distant, authoritative. It came out as a bark, much different than the soft half-sentence of before.

Stiles wasn’t an idiot. He could make stupid decisions, sure, but he knew what the look on Derek’s face was. He could put two-and-two together, and as the son of the Sherriff he had pretty damn good experience at reading people. Derek had heard Stiles and had felt the younger boy’s distress, and he had come to try and help. But he had gotten lost in his own memories. That, added with Derek’s complete inability to comfort or use his words, had the man clamming up again.

Stiles let him off easy and turned to his desk, feigning ignorance and irritation when he really wanted to hug Derek and thank him for trying. “Well, the writing isn’t any romance language and it’s not Chinese, Arabic, Latin, or Egyptian. I was just looking through South American dialects when your furry ass showed up. If you want to be useful, you can grab that book over there and start looking at magical languages to see if any match. Or you could run off to God-knows-where and do whatever wolfy shit you usually do.” Stiles sat down in his chair and switched off the techno song that was blaring over his iTunes. The resulting silence was weird and stilted.

Stiles busied himself by scrolling down the page and ignoring Derek behind him. A few minutes later, Derek grunted and Stiles could hear the thump and smell the must from a heavy, ancient tomb being flipped open.

Stiles bit back his grin.

* * *

  **Outlines**

_When his last year of high school began, Stiles was kind of best friends with the broody orphan._

_I'm half remembered, half way across the world_  
 _Twice removed from a second home_  
 _The shadow of a ghost in an old haunt_  
 _With a lease on life, 'cause I can't afford to own_

_Outlines_ had never really meant anything to Stiles before he met Derek. But now, the longer he spent in the broody man’s presence and the better he began to understand him, Stiles could put lyrics to a face, words to a story.

Derek had lost everything. He was haunted by his past and the ghosts of his mistakes followed him around constantly. Stiles might not know the whole story, but he knew that Derek blamed himself for the fire and that it affected every single thing in Derek’s life.

 _When being young starts getting old_  
A new place saves face or so I’m told  
Be the new kid, on an old block  
A chalk outline on a playground blacktop

Stiles gave Derek a lot of props; Derek came back to the place where he grew up and the place that was the center of his every nightmare only to find that his sister had been brutally murdered and his uncle had been murdering people in his sleep, including Laura, and biting random sixteen year olds. Derek was thrust into adulthood, was forced to pick up the pieces of a life he didn’t want to live, was dumped with other people’s problems and a pack of teenagers he didn’t understand and didn’t know how to lead. He was the new guy in town, the new alpha on the block, but it was still the same Beacon Hills that it had always been—right down to the Quickmart on the corner of Adams Street that always had moldy bread.

Derek hadn’t asked for any of it. Stiles saw how much it affected him and saw his burdens clearly. Derek was stronger than Stiles thought he himself ever could be. Derek didn’t once complain. Okay, so maybe he was grumpy and maybe he didn’t know how to use his words, maybe he got angry too quickly, maybe he resorted to violence too easily, but Stiles didn’t know if he would have been able to function if he had been in Derek’s position.

So yeah, Stiles respected Derek. Stiles was oddly proud of him in a way that didn’t make sense and made Stiles’ stomach hurt when he thought about it. __  
  
I’m just a moment, so don’t let me pass you by  
We could be a story in the morning, but we’ll be a legend tonight  
I’m just a moment, so don’t let me pass you by  
And they can speak our names in a dead language  
Cause you and I, we’re alive  
But just for a moment

Stiles and Derek went on adventures. Derek didn’t call them that and Stiles probably shouldn’t have, but they _were_. It happened more and more, as Derek needed Stiles help more often and Stiles learned how to control his need to talk. They became _friends_.

Derek picked Stiles up at least once of week, dragged him to stakeouts and pizza, to research and burgers, to investigations and Chinese. Stiles got attacked by witches and maimed by ogres on some of those outings, and one time Derek lost a finger that took two hours to grow back, but Stiles liked spending time with Derek—probably too much. It was on those nights that he felt alive. The way Stiles saw it, even if his time as Derek’s friend was fleeting at least it made them happy.

Derek would open up to Stiles on those quiet nights in the Camaro, would tell Stiles stories about his childhood and complain about leading a pack of teenagers. Stiles slowly etched a place for himself in Derek’s life and wrote himself into Derek’s thoughts and feelings.

Their adventures weren’t always fun and were dangerous more often than not, but nevertheless Stiles found himself looking back on those nights as the best of his junior year. __  
  
I’m twice the man that I thought I was yesterday  
Half the time, I’m a world away  
A flicker of a soul casting silhouettes  
On the face of a town that could not get me to stay

Stiles could see Derek growing, could see it in the way he started to form alliances to protect his pack instead of letting danger come to them and in the way he ignored Lydia’s bitchiness. Derek tried to control his anger. Stiles still found that far-away look in Derek’s eyes from time to time and knew that he was reliving his past, thinking about his parents. But Derek was getting further and further away from the angry, emotionally constipated man who Stiles and Scott stumbled upon that day in the woods. And unlike after his family was burned to death, Beacon Hills did get Derek to stay this time.

 _And when the spark’s gone, former lovers just looking for a bus to throw me under_  
I’ll be the new kid on an old block  
A chalk outline on a playground blacktop  
  
I’m just a moment, so don’t let me pass you by  
We could be a story in the morning, but we’ll be a legend tonight  
I’m just a moment, so don’t let me pass you by  
And they can speak our names in a dead language  
Cause you and I, we’re alive  
But just for a moment  
Just for a moment

Just for a moment, Stiles could let himself believe that Derek and he could possibly be something. Just for a moment, Derek would look at Stiles like he _saw_ him. Just for a moment, in the dark corners of Stiles’ bedroom when John was working a late shift and Derek was having a hard time sleeping in his own apartment, Stiles fooled himself into thinking that he could kiss Derek.

Those moments were fleeting.

 _When being young starts getting old_  
A new place saves face or so I’m told  
I’ll be the new kid, on an old block  
A chalk outline on a playground blacktop

Sometimes when Derek got tired of dealing with the drama of his teenaged pack, Stiles would find him laying on Stiles’ bed. Stiles saw the wrinkles forming on Derek’s forehead and the exhaustion in his eyes. Stiles wanted to blow him until Derek’s exhaustion and disinterest gave way to quiet moans and excited whines. He found himself wanting to kiss away his frowns and nuzzle Derek to sleep. He was a little bit afraid of what it all meant. __  
  
I’m just a moment, so don’t let me pass you by  
We could be a story in the morning, but a legend tonight  
I’m just a moment, so don’t let me pass you by  
They can speak our names in a dead language  
Cause you and I, we’re alive  
But just for a moment  
Just for the moment  
Just for the moment

Just for the moment Stiles wanted to curl into Derek and let the older man’s stubble rasp against his cheeks as he kissed him to sleep.

Just for the moment, Stiles hated himself for falling in love with his alpha, with his alpha who would never want Stiles the way Stiles wanted him.

* * *

  **A Daydream Away**

_Stiles was_ _maybe a_ _little bit in love with Derek._

It was near the end of his senior year when Stiles finally let himself believe that he loved the grumpy, stupid, possessive, happy-challenged alpha. He was at Derek’s new apartment with the pack, who was finally starting to resemble something of an actual family, and Scott, who was not an official member but who, lately, spent more time with Derek than anywhere else.

Stiles was part of the pack, of _Derek’s_ pack, and he liked it. He liked the safety and the teasing and the smell of family that even he as a human picked up on. There were six-sometimes-seven of them now— two humans (Stiles and Lydia) and four-sometimes-five werewolves (Isaac, Boyd, Erica, Derek, and sometimes Scott) because even though the Alphas had left scars—some visible and many psychological—they hadn’t managed to kill anyone before they were decimated themselves. Allison was not pack and she did not want to be, at least not yet when Scott was still weary of Derek’s control, but Stiles had a feeling that if Scott and she lasted, Allison would assimilate into their group quite nicely (she had mostly gotten over her hatred of the pack when Derek growled out the explanation to her mother’s death after Allison had nearly carved a triskele of wolfsbane into Derek’s chest).

They were watching television because “Derek, I am not being a part of this pack if I have to watch you four punch each other all the time. I need to keep up with the Kardashians,” as Lydia had protested one day. The steamy scene in Titanic was on and Derek kept making faces at the set.

“Mmhm, Leo I would totally follow you into a sketchy-ass car if you fucked me like that,” Erica commented from her perch on one of the couches, her legs intertwined with Boyd’s. He snorted from underneath her and she wiggled her toes in his lap playfully.

Lydia hummed in agreement. “There’s something about his hair, I think. And damn but those suspenders!” The strawberry blonde was draped across Isaac’s lap in the loveseat sideways. Her long, graceful legs lazed over the arm of the chair and Isaac had his nose pressed into her collarbone. They were so cute it was sickening.

Scott was on the floor in front of the second couch and checking his phone religiously. Allison would have come and she usually did, but her father had demanded some bonding time. Scott was pouting his way through the evening. Stiles swore that he suffered from separation anxiety. He himself was lounging on the couch above Scott’s head, his arm over the back of the couch and his feet propped up on the coffee table. Derek sat beside him, close enough to subtly scent Stiles but far enough to maintain his cool Derek demeanor.

When the back of Derek’s hand drifted close enough to brush against Stiles’ thigh through his thin jeans, Stiles sucked in a breath through his nose. The scene on the television was sexual and Stiles was still a teenager, okay? Combined with his close proximity to a fucking Greek god, he had every excuse to be, um, _slightly aroused_.

“Who wants popcorn? I’ll make popcorn!” Stiles jumped up from his spot and nearly leapt into the kitchen. His heart hammered in his chest, thumping out a beat of _want, need, have_. He wanted to hit himself hard over the head or maybe fall under a bus. The whole living room could undoubtedly smell him and um, embarrassing much? He no longer felt this way around Lydia, or that cute girl at the coffee shop, or hell even Danny. Somewhere along the line, Derek had become Stiles’ trip wire.

Grumbling to himself about stupid werewolves and idiotic movies, Stiles poured in triple the butter he should have. He cursed and put the popcorn into the microwave. His hands scrubbing down his face in frustration, he tried in vain to reign his hormones in.

“Don’t forget the salt!” Isaac called from the living room. Stiles rolled his eyes and grabbed the shaker, stalking back into the room after the decrepit microwave pinged and settling himself back down on the couch. He busied himself with popcorn eating to stifle his urge to reach across and outline the stupid tic on Derek’s cheek.

So that was the day that he realized he was stupidly in love with Derek Hale. Unrequited love number two, commence.

~.~

When Stiles heard the lyrics to _A Daydream Away_ blare over his iPhone car speakers on his way to school the next day, he almost choked on their relevance. True, Stiles would never ask Derek out because, was Derek even gay? It was just safer to admire him from afar. Not to mention Stiles really wouldn’t know what to do if he _actually_ had him.

It became a little too relevant when Stiles was at Lydia’s birthday party that year and got wasted off of (yes this would be his life, characterized by corny pop songs) salty, limey tequila. He was laying down because that seemed like a good idea when he couldn’t think beyond the spinning of the room and because well, he wanted to.

Stiles was talking to himself. Obviously. Stiles always talked, and he was a rambling drunk. Even though there was nobody to listen, because Allison had dragged Scott away to some relatively private room where they could fuck or _make love_ or whatever they were calling it, and because the pack was all over _each other_ , Stiles still ran his mouth.

“I- I am sad.” Stiles stared up at the ceiling, wondering why it was white. Why hadn’t someone painted it like, bright orange? Orange was a pretty color. “Yes. Mhm. I’m seventeen, I’m going to c-college soon. I can handle it.” Stiles noticed, in the far back of his mind where his sober brain was lurking, that he did this thing when he was pissed as hell—his finger pointed everywhere. He waggled it at the ceiling and then at himself, nodding along with his words. “ _I_ have like, four ghosts and asses of ten witches.” Was that even a sentence? “I have a _pack_ and shit. Everything’s fine. Mhm. Great. Fantastic.” Stiles ‘f’ may or may not have lingered for about six seconds. “But _Der-ek_. I like him. He’s… mm he’s yummy. I think I loves him. _Loves_. He probably doesn’t like loves. He’s too _grrr_ and _eeerg_.” Stiles hands made little claws and he laughed at himself as he scratched at, what, the air?

“Scott doesn’t like Derek too. I should call Ssc-” Stiles pulled at his pants pocket, fumbling with the boxy device. “Pants. Fuckin’… pants. Pockets. Pockets _suck_ man. You know?” He hadn’t realized just how much he hated pants until then. Clothes, really. Any clothes. Woah, when had it gotten so hot? “Why’ssit so hot?” he whined. “I hate clothes. They hate me. Clothes, Stiles, no friends. You know who else hates clothes?” And there was the slurring again. God, what was with those damn s’s? “Alpha. Alpha hates clothes. Clothes never… he doesn’t… hm. Maybe he’sallergic.” Sober Stiles was pretty sure that he’s and allergic were not one word but whatcha gonna do?

It was suddenly really, supremely, ridiculously important for him to ask Derek if he was allergic to cotton or clothes or _thread_ , or if it was maybe just his wolfy-powers. “Research,” Stiles mumbled. While one hand fumbled with his phone, the other hiked his shirt up to his collarbones. Dammit he was sweating. His finger started rubbing little infinity signs onto his chest when he finally, finally, got Derek’s number flashing on the screen.

“Stiles?” Derek sounded surprised when he picked up the phone. Stiles smiled into the carpet by his head. What room was he even in?

“Alpha!” Stiles voice sounded too cheerful, even to his drunk brain, but he couldn’t turn it off. “Alphaaa. Wait. There was somethin’… I needed to ask… what… oh! Allergy. You. Pants?” Derek wasn’t there, but Stiles still pointed from his jeans to somewhere to the left of him.

“What? Stiles, where are you? Oh, god, Lydia’s party, right? Are you drunk?” Derek’s voice sounded worried, and Stiles wasn’t sure if he had ever heard that many questions come out of the older man in one rush before. He giggled at it.

“Worried and _questions_! You, Alphaa. You’re never… wait. I need more alco’ol. I’ll be back.” Again, Stiles pointed at his own chest when he said _I_. His hand dropped the phone from his ear to the side of his body, his arm going limp, and he grunted as he sat and then stood up. Woah, was the world supposed to spin like that? Derek was saying something near his hip when Stiles started to hobble down the hallway. He used the walls to keep himself upright because one minute he was to his left and then he was _this_ close to a hung painting.

“Stiles! Stiles, no more alcohol. You don’t need it. Dammit, I should have come with you.” Derek went off about how Stiles was the only one of the pack who could and would get trashed. Which, _rude_.

“Rude, dude!” Okay, so the phone was back by Stiles’ face. “I… wanna know why I’m drunk? I tell you… _you_. Secret. Shh it’s a secret. I don’t think I was s’possed to tell you. But I wanna. So, Derr’k. Derr’k, it’s you. You’re why I… to forget.” Oh, finally! Stiles grabbed the heavy bottle of rum off the floor and found a half-empty can of pineapple juice next to it. Smiling and giggling, he mixed the two and took a long guzzle, ignoring when half of his sip sloshed onto his jeans. “You!”

“What? Stiles, you’re not making any sense. Just don’t move. I’ll be there soon. Go find Scott. Please, Stiles.” Was Derek pleading?

“Okay. Bye Alpha!” Stiles threw his phone somewhere on the ground and meandered his way back from where he came.

When Derek found him, Stiles was shirtless and sitting on one of the lounge chairs by the pool. Danny was next to him, or rather under him because Stiles had his hand on Danny’s thigh and his face mashed into the other man’s neck. Neither looked very coherent and from where Derek stood it looked like Stiles was simultaneously giving Danny a hickey and whining about something.

When Derek got Stiles into the car, Stiles was fading in and out of consciousness and was pleasantly fuzzy.

The Sherriff was on the night shift again, so Derek brought his son through the front door. He had one arm around Stiles waist and one holding Stiles’ arm around his neck. Stiles reeked of alcohol, teenagers, hormones, sadness, strangers, happiness, contentment. Stiles was still mumbling, somewhat in his sleep, and Derek tried to just hum his way through it while he dragged Stiles up the stairs. Derek was preoccupied with trying to stomp down his urge to scrub Stiles free of Danny’s scent and rub his own all over him instead.

Derek may have reeked of all of those things too because Stiles may or may not have spilt his drink all over Derek’s nice black shirt and may or may not have kissed Derek’s shoulder while Derek was trying to _drive_ , dammit.

He finally got Stiles upstairs and to his bed. Stiles jolted when Derek started to pull off his shoes.

“Derek?” Stiles voice was soft and sleepy, laced with slurs that could have been from either drunkenness or exhaustion. Derek hmm’d in response. “I have another secret.”

Derek ignored the way his heart stuttered in his chest at the boy’s words. He busied himself with pulling off Stiles’ too-tight and too-sticky jeans. “Yeah?”

Stiles whispered into his pillow and Derek had to strain his werewolf hearing to understand it. “I think you’re really, really, really… perfect.”

Well, there goes Derek’s attempt at self-preservation.

His heart stopped, his throat constricted. No, Stiles was not saying what he thought he was saying. Stiles was saying that he was drunk and he was happy Derek went and got him. He was tired and he was glad Derek was taking care of him. He was horny and he was appreciating Derek’s stupid, annoying good looks. Stiles didn’t want Derek beyond that. Derek was too fucked up, too emotionally stunted, too ugly on the inside. Stiles was pure, Stiles was beautiful, Stiles was caring and sweet, _Stiles_ was perfect, not him. Derek was sure of that.

But still, when Stiles sleepily threw one of his old t-shirts at Derek’s head and told him to put it on and get in bed, Derek didn’t have a chance in hell of denying him.

* * *

**Guts**

_A few months later, Stiles went from pack to mate._

Whenever the first bars of _Guts_ started up, Stiles always, _always_ smelled smoke and tasted desperation.

It was the end of his senior year and Stiles was trying to decide what to do about college. Stay and have his pack, Scott, his father? Leave and have freedom, new possibilities, a future? He had been accepted to a gorgeous school in Malibu, Pepperdine University, because Stiles was smart but he didn’t get Stanford grades or anything—especially not with ADHD and monster hunting. But he also got into a school that was only a forty-five minute drive from Beacon Hills. It wasn’t amazing, but the costs were doable and they had a pretty decent early childhood education program.

John kept badgering Stiles to make a decision because they had to send in housing deposits in exactly a week and fuck, he had no idea what to do. So Stiles ran away. Okay, he ran to Derek, but still.

The Alpha had been spending a lot of time at the Hale house recently. After Peter had been killed the second time—because dammit, Stiles did not want to become a werewolf and he did not take kindly to Peter’s attempt at eating him/mating with him, especially when Peter kidnapped him and tried to carve his initials into Stiles’ skin—Derek had taken to spending his days mournfully at his burnt-down crisp of a house.

Stiles found him there, in his old bedroom, staring at the ceiling. Stiles laid down next to him on the dangerously rotten floorboards.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Stiles said.

It was normal for them, the way they drifted closer as the day bled into the night. They were each lost in their own little worlds. It was unconscious, the way Derek’s hand slid down to lay over Stiles’ thigh and Stiles bared his neck so Derek could scent mark him there. It was comfort and pack, nothing more, but Stiles still had to repeat that over and over in his brain.

Stiles had harbored his crush for Derek for about a year now; it was nowhere near as long as his obsession with Lydia but seemed, for some reason, more _right_. Easier, somehow. Better. Derek had been ruthlessly stamping down his feelings of mate and love for the better part of two and a half years because Stiles had only just turned eighteen and he had a life to live and Derek was a mess.

But this, their quite nights of peace and perfection, were easy for both of them. They made sense. Neither of them was sure when these nights had started and both of them were content to let sleeping dogs lie. Ha, dogs. Wolves. Stiles really needed to get out more often.

Derek finally left to go get some pizza and a liter of Coke for dinner (only after he put up with Stiles’ stomach angrily growling for half an hour) with a promise from Stiles to be good and not burn the house down. Stiles had thought it was ironic because the house couldn’t get much worse if he tried.

Okay, so _he_ didn’t burn the house down, but it still happened.

Stiles was taking a nap while he waited for Derek to get back; doing nothing all day was _exhausting_. He thought, therefore, that the smell of smoke and the dancing flames behind his eyelids were just dreams, maybe nightmares that came from him trying to imagine what Derek had gone through. He realized he was so, so wrong when he woke up choking and sweating, his eyes burning.

Someone was shouting his name but Stiles couldn’t concentrate on that. He could barely see through the extensive smoke, probably made worse because it had rained the night before and the house had already been burnt once. There were deafening crackles all around him. Something fell from the sky to his left and when he looked, his hand over his mouth and his body fighting off a panic attack, he saw one of the main support beams laying on the floor, engulfed in orange flames.

Out, out. He had to get _out_. But how? He couldn’t see, couldn’t think. His throat was closing up—not only from the smoke but also from the soul-crushing panic that he hadn’t felt in nearly two years. The shouting intensified. Stiles thought he heard snarls and growls over the snapping of the house’s boards but he chalked it up to delirium from lack of oxygen.

He was too hot, burning up; he tasted rather than felt the salt from desperate tears. His stomach churned. Was he whimpering?

 _This is it_ , he thought. He was going to die the same way that Derek’s entire family had. Poor Derek. God, he loved him. When a weight fell on top of him, crushing Stiles down, down into the floor so that spots blurred his vision and he felt his arm snap, Stiles’ only thoughts were of his dad and Derek. What would they do without Stiles to distract them from their misery?

He must have drifted out of consciousness because the next thing there was wet grass under his palms and a hard body touching him. “Stiles? Stiles!” His body was shaking. Was that a nose on his neck?

“Hey, Sourwolf.” Stiles voice was cracked, broken. He just wanted to sleep, but his body had other ideas. He coughed, sat up and groaned, sucked in clean oxygen.

“Oh thank god.” A body was wrapped around him. Derek pulled Stiles against him frantically and ran his hands up and down Stiles’ body. The younger man laughed but it came out like a wheeze. Derek was making little whines in the back of his throat and snuffling against Stiles’ hair. Stiles’ heart swelled and he made a grab at Derek’s hair to pet it, only just remembering that his left arm was throbbing against his side in pain. Derek turned his face into Stiles’ hand to nuzzle it.

“It’s okay dude. I’m okay. See? Still talking. You’re okay Der.” Of course Stiles was comforting _him_ , Derek thought.  

“I thought- I thought…”

Stiles shushed him gently, pulling his hand away and tilting Derek’s face up to his own. “Derek,” he murmured.

Everything was quiet. Stiles didn’t bother to look; he knew the house was still burning. Derek was finally letting it go.

And fuck it, but Stiles almost died, _again_. He didn’t know why or what had happened but he was _tired_ of almost dying. Derek, he was reliving the memories of years ago when heard the cries and smelled the burning flesh of his family. He had almost lost Stiles, too. Stiles, who smelled like innocence and happiness. Stiles, who felt like mate and home. Stiles, who made his wolf roll over and his heart thump. Stiles, who he—liked. As a friend.

But then Stiles decided he had to man up, grow some balls—have some _guts_. So he grabbed Derek’s chin with his good hand, stomach flipping, heart stuttering, and slotted their mouths together.

Stiles tasted of smoke and Derek tasted of desperation. Stubble scratched against stubble almost uncomfortably, Derek had to be careful of Stiles’ arm, and Stiles was in pain and covered in soot. The timing was horrible. Derek’s past life was disappearing right in front of their eyes—literally. They were both scared and upset, clinging together as they bit lips and soothed aches. It was perfect.

When Stiles’ started to have trouble breathing, they pulled back just far enough to get some fresh air between their bodies. They didn’t go far; their foreheads touched and they leant against each other as they pulling in oxygen to their heaving lungs. Stiles had a hand at Derek’s nape and was clutching his hair and Derek was holding onto the collar of Derek’s jacket, the worn leather yielding under his capable hands.

“I, Derek, you… fuck.” Stiles was addicted to kissing Derek. It was instantaneous, his need to lick at the seam of Derek’s lips and peck at his mouth, his chin, his neck. He was allowed to do it now; Derek had given Stiles permission to kiss him and damn it but he was going to take full advantage of that. Derek chuckled, low and beautiful.

“Cat got your tongue?” he joked against Stiles’ mouth.

“No. _Wolf_ got my tongue.”

Derek growled playfully and pinned Stiles to the ground. Stiles couldn’t stop from giggling when Derek licked at the sensitive skin behind his ear.

Neither of them would have had it any other way.

They found the omega that had set the fire two weeks later when she bated them out into the woods. Apparently she thought that setting fire to the resident Alpha’s house would erase the sadness she felt in the area and would convince Derek to welcome her into his pack. Stiles was really starting to wonder about the sanity of werewolves. 

* * *

  **Walls**

_It was the month before Stiles started college and being a boyfriend was kind of awesome._

_Take off your shirt, your shoes, those skinny jeans I bought for you. We're diving in, there's nothing left to lose._

 “No.”

“What do you mean, _no_? You haven’t even given it a chance. Der, it’s really comfortable. And look, it makes my shoulders look broader. I mean, not as big as yours obviously. I’ve been meaning to ask you, what is your workout routine? Like once every day or…? Because I’ve been thinking about joining in. I mean, that might be hot right? Working out together, making out together, sweat and sex? You’re not too good at hiding your scent kink. You love it when I’m sweating, mumbled something about it making my scent stronger or some shit that one time and-”

“Stiles,” Derek growled through clenched teeth, “the point is to lose the plaid. That,” Derek waved his hand in the direction of Stiles’ current shirt, “is plaid.”

“Well, yeah, but it’s fashionable plaid!” Stiles tried. Derek just shook his head and pointed a finger to the dressing room. Stiles sighed, long-suffering, and hung his head as he shuffled back into the little cubical.

They had tried to share the dressing room so that Derek could lick at Stiles’ hipbones in between his changes, but the saleslady had stopped them with a twinkling eye. So they were settling for this arrangement—Stiles changed, narrating the experience, and then strutted out to show Derek what he looked like. Derek would be lying if he said he didn’t appreciate the way Stiles left the door open a little on purpose so that Derek could catch the pale, freckled skin reappear and disappear.

“Okay, no, no way is this going to work. These jeans won’t even… do I… how does this even work? Oh, Jesus, I’m hopping? I’m going to fall over and split my head open and then I’ll die here and that’s a shame, because dude I survived all that only to die putting on these damn—ouch!—damn skinny jeans from Hell. And—oh, _oh no_. Oh _hell_ no. Derek, why is this even in the pile? I know you put this here, don’t even think about lying mister. You know what, fuck it. Let’s see how ridiculous it looks on.”

He looked anything but ridiculous.

Derek was having a hard time adjusting his own jeans when he saw Stiles in his. Derek had known that the younger man was right; his shoulders _had_ gotten broader. His waist had gotten leaner, tapering down to a pair of jutting hipbones. His ass had somehow gotten even rounder than when Derek had first met him; he knew from personal experience that it tasted like Stiles and innocence, and that Stiles liked it when Derek sunk his teeth into the curve where it met his back. But what Derek hadn’t been counting on was having all of that displayed at once. That outfit certainly knew how to accentuate Stiles’ features—from the creamy expanse of his arms to the firmness of his thighs.

Stiles wore a simple dark blue wife beater and a pair of dark wash jeans. Derek wore an uncomfortable hard-on.

Derek didn’t know if he’d ever seen Stiles look so fucking _edible_ , not even when he had come over with the pack to take pictures for prom last year. And trust Derek when he says that Stiles in a suit was not an image he could wash out of his head, no matter how many times he had rubbed one out to the image of it.

“So?”

Stiles was teasing, the corner of his mouth lifted up in jest. After five months together and two and a half years of knowing each other before that, Stiles didn’t need to be a werewolf to know when his boyfriend was turned on. Derek’s nose would flare, his eyes would turn a deeper shade of green as if preparing to turn red, his fists would clench. Stiles would be the first to admit how horny it made him, knowing Derek got like that because of _him_. It was a heady feeling.

Stiles bought the pants. And the tank top. Or, Derek bought them because he was loaded and it was kind of a gift for himself anyways, but that was just semantics, right? And as soon as they got into the Camaro, Derek pulled Stiles into the back so that he could rut up against the damned hipbone that had been teasing him through those jeans.

Derek thought that though he paid for the jeans, hemight have actually gotten the better deal.

* * *

  **Forget About It**

_They’d been together for two years now, but they were still learning about each other._

Derek was still Derek, no matter how he had changed over the years. He was still secretive, still got angry, still believed that he deserved shit.

Stiles was still Stiles, no matter how he had grown over the years. He was still curious, still too talkative, still believed that he wasn’t good enough.

So Stiles pushed and Derek resisted.

They were good together, but like every relationship they had their problems. Derek didn’t always listen to Stiles and Stiles could be impatient and rude. Both had their selfish moments. They screamed at the top of their lungs and Derek wolfed out when Stiles refused to submit, his alpha instincts kicking in. They had angry, rough, bruising argument sex against walls that left them both sated but upset. Derek stormed out of the newly built Hale house when Stiles got too naggy. Stiles hit things that were softer than werewolf skin so that he wouldn’t break his goddamn hand on his boyfriend’s nose.

But they always made up.

This time, though, it felt like they might not. It was a particularly bad fight that had arisen over Derek’s refusal to talk about his past. Stiles got it, he really did, because hel _lo_ no mother, but he felt like he was missing a huge chunk of who Derek was. He wanted to know every little thing about Derek’s life, from his mother’s maiden name to his youngest sister’s favorite color. And it still fucking hurt okay? Derek didn’t talk about it because it felt like his organs were being repeatedly stabbed with a bread knife.

_'Cause I feel like a bad joke. Walk the tight rope to hold on to you._

 “I need you to talk to me! You’re so hard to read, all the _fucking_ time, and I just need you to meet me halfway here! I don’t need to know everything but I mean, Derek, you’re a closed book that I can’t even try to open because you’re so stubbornly clasped shut. Like a teenaged girl’s diary or some shit!” Stiles stared Derek down, though not literally because they were almost completely equal heights. Even as his eyes turned red around the edges, Derek’s eyebrow quirked up in sassy judgment of Stiles’ argumentative tactics. “Okay, so that analogy got a little ahead of me, but you know what I mean!”

_You know...There are some days where I really feel like this could work; like you and I are finally gonna get it right._

Stiles pushed at Derek’s chest and the alpha grabbed Stiles’ wrists, clenching hard. When he spoke, it was low and dangerous and through gnashed teeth. “Not everything is always about you.”

Stiles felt like he had been slapped in the face. He took a step back, yanking his hands away and crossing them over his chest protectively. Derek had the decency to look a little regretful.

 “You know that’s not what I mean at all Derek. I… it helps to talk about it. I just thought… never mind.” Silently, Stiles grabbed his hoodie from the floor where he had shucked it when he had walked in and clenched his keys in his hand hard enough to leave a red dent. “I’ll leave you to it then. Wouldn’t want to turn any more of your damned pity party into me trying to _help you_ because God forbid—”

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Derek didn’t want to hear Stiles ramble. “Sorry. I’ll just… go.”

_Then there are days like today, when you make me wanna tear my fucking hair out._

Stiles made it all of fifty feet.

Strong hands grabbed his biceps, spinning him around viciously. Dark, mussed hair and spiky stubble blurred his vision. Derek pushed him up against the wall hard enough to shake the house and Stiles whimpered, a little from arousal and a little from fear. Which, _not_ the right time for either, thank you very much!

“You’re infuriating,” Derek said, close enough to Stiles so that he could watch the werewolf’s eyes flash burgundy.

Stiles thanked the lucky stars that at least Derek hadn’t reverted to monosyllabic indifference. What Stiles heard was not an _I hate you_ but rather _sorry_ and _I’m an idiot_ and _I didn’t mean it_ and _I love you_.

When Derek bit at his lips and pushed him viciously against the wall with his hips, Stiles let him. He knew that that meant _please forgive me and let me show you how much you mean to me with my actions because I’m really bad at words_. So Stiles let him.

_So just forget about it._

Derek’s stubble scratched at the sensitive skin behind his ear. Stiles involuntarily shivered, his body curving against the ridiculous muscles pressed into his stomach, and Derek steadied him with two firm hands on his hips.

“Fuck, how are you so calm right now? I gotta tell ya, Der, it makes me—umff yeah, okay, shutting up now.” Derek’s mouth moved back to Stiles, if only for the sole purpose of forcing Stiles to make that noise that was somewhere in between a moan and a yelp.

To be honest, kissing Derek was one of Stiles’ favorite things to do—followed up by blowing Derek, and getting fucked by Derek, and being rimmed by Derek, and watching Doctor Who with Derek. He knew that he could kiss Derek all day, every day, and never get tired of it. The beard burn might get to be a bit much, but he didn’t doubt that Derek would just lick the hurt away. Kissing Derek was a fucking miracle.

They kissed like it was a contest. Derek liked to bite into Stiles’ mouth and see how long it would take before Stiles tried to take control. Stiles liked to grab at anything he could reach and see if Derek would start to resist. There was something to be said about the way they always tried to one-up each other when they kissed. When Stiles licked Derek’s lip, Derek retaliated by grabbing Stiles hair hard in one hand; when Derek thrust his tongue into Stiles’ mouth, mimicking the way he would fuck him later, Stiles retaliated by sliding his hands into Derek’s pockets and squeezing, _hard_.

Both of them had marking kinks; Derek could, and did, spend hours sucking hickeys into the pale expanse of the other man’s chest. Stiles loved watching in fascination (and mindless arousal) as the marks he left on Derek faded into nothingness. So when Stiles head dropped to Derek’s shoulder for the sole purpose of biting into the skin there, Derek’s hips struck forward and he gasped, his nerve endings on fire. Stiles smiled and pressed a kiss to the sensitive skin beneath his teeth impression.

It wasn’t long before they got impatient. This time, Derek was the one who grabbed the bottom of Stiles’ shirt and brutally yanked it upwards. It was usually Stiles who needed more, couldn’t wait, felt like he was on fire. Derek was usually content to lick Stiles into insanity. Stiles made a needy whine in the back of his throat and lifted his arms so that the shirt could slide off and fall to the ground somewhere. He didn’t look to see where it landed and he didn’t care. He had more pressing matters at hand—or, he _wanted_ to have a pressing matter in his hand. Now.

Derek pressed a knee in the space that Stiles’ shifting had created. He pushed up, pressed into Stiles’ groin, and they gasped in unison. Suddenly, it was all not enough. They weren’t naked enough, weren’t close enough, weren’t fast enough. Their hands tugged at each other, a flurry of motion that Stiles couldn’t have followed even if he wanted to. “Off, off. Derek, now. I—I need you. Fuck yeah,” Stiles whimpered.

Stiles sent a quick thanks to whatever supreme being there was that Isaac was staying over Lydia’s apartment for the night as Derek shucked his pants and his boxers. As soon as he stood back up, Derek ground his hips hard against the now-naked plane of Stiles’ pelvis, and when had Stiles lost his jeans?

“Bed. Der, bed. Now,” Stiles muttered against Derek’s chin. The other man nodded against him and walked backwards to the stairs, pulling Stiles along by his belt loops. They made it up to the master bedroom after nearly breaking a painting along the wall of the stairwell, and Derek silently vowed to take that down whenever his legs became solid again.

Stiles pushed Derek down to the bed with a single hand to his chest. Derek went willingly and Stiles kneeled on the bed beside him, straddling Derek’s prone form. Two hands gripped Stiles’ hips, squeezing, kneading, hard enough to leave bruises. Their cocks slid together, the friction turning Derek’s mind to white noise. Stiles let out a… whine? Derek had long since given up on trying to find names for Stiles’ noises.

But fuck, Stiles felt so good against him.

Derek was normally hot but somehow Stiles made him burn. He brought a hand between them to wrap around Stiles’ cock. The other man threw his head back against the feel of his lover’s palm sliding up, down, up, twist. Stiles’ dick jumped in Derek’s hand, his thighs trembling in the effort of holding himself up.

“Fuck, yeah. Shit. Derek, Derek, I need… I- yeah, yeah like that,” Stiles cried out.

His spine arching violently against the shiver of arousal that flowed through him like electricity, Derek slid his hand down and over his own dick so that his fist now pumped steadily around both of them. Tips touching, Stiles thought that nothing could ever be as good as Derek’s precum sliding against his own.

The drag of skin on skin became too much. Stiles let himself flop off of Derek and onto the other side of the bed, his fingers coming up to press against his own tight opening. He rubbed at the sensitive skin there, closing his eyes against the mind-numbing sensation, and slowly eased first one, then two fingers inside.

Derek made a grab for the lube on the side table and slicked his fingers up quickly. Breathe ghosting over Stiles’ cheek, he pulled Stiles’ thighs apart with one hand so that the other could tease the puckered skin around the skinny fingers embedded there. Stiles let out another high, breathless keen.

Derek leaned up so that he could watch as Stiles pleasured himself, prepping for when Derek would fuck him senseless. The thought sent a shiver up his back and Derek pressed a quick, almost chaste kiss into the skin of Stiles’ collarbone. Simultaneously, Derek slipped his index finger in beside Stiles’.

Stiles’ eyes shot open, licking his paper-dry lips wildly ( _Dammit, but that mouth should be illegal_ , Derek thought). He fisted the comforter in a death grip and sped his movements up, his breath coming in quick gasps.

Derek didn’t normally talk during sex, but something about seeing Stiles fall apart underneath him had him panting out encouragements in Stiles’ ear. “Come on, Stiles. Shh, I’ve got you, s’okay. Mmm you feel so good, baby.”

Baby? Derek hardly ever called Stiles ‘baby’. Just that one word, whispered through wrecked windpipes, had him nearly shattering against Derek. And, okay, ew Stiles wouldn’t really shatter, _obviously_ , because wouldn’t that suck if you had to clean up guts and blood and gross nasty bits off the walls every time you came?

It was only a few seconds later when Stiles was pulling his hand away with a grunt. “‘m ready. Now, Derek.”

Derek fumbled with the cap on the lube because Stiles was staring at him expectantly, all wet, golden eyes and obscene, pink lips. And fuck if he didn’t want those lips around his dick and those eyes staring up at him, daring him to come down Stiles’ throat. Derek felt a pang of regret but, next time.

He slicked up his dick, the movements creating an illicitly sucking noise in the silence of the room. Stiles made an impatient noise against the pillow. Derek couldn’t stop from chuckling a little as he lined himself up, held Stiles’ open with two hands on his ass cheeks, and slid inside in one, smooth movement.

Their breath hitched. Stiles slapped his hands across Derek’s back to make sure he wouldn’t go anywhere. Derek thought, _as if_.

They always needed a minute to readjust after they first joined. There was something primal about being connected to another person that had Derek’s wolf spinning and howling and Stiles’ mind shutting down.

When they both had come back to the bed, Stiles twitched his legs against Derek’s ass. “Move, move, move,” Stiles chanted, mindless with want. Derek’s hands tightened so he could hold Stiles still. And then, with his eyes trained on Stiles’ face, he started to move.

He clenched around Derek’s dick, thrashed his head, scraped his nails down Derek’s back. Stiles was known to move a lot, and sex was no exception. Derek would be lying if he said it didn’t make his blood run hot through his veins.

One of the best things about sex with Stiles was listening to his heartbeat. It was what made Derek a quick learner—he had found almost every erogenous zone in weeks and had figured out almost all of Stiles’ kinks within the first two months. Now, as he slid out of Stiles’ slick heat only to disappear into it moments later, the jumping of Stiles’ heart made the experience just that much sweeter.

When it stuttered as Derek moved his palms over Stiles’ chest so that he could deepen his thrusts, Derek had to concentrate to stop from embarrassing himself.

Derek shifted his thighs and Stiles whimpered when the change in angle brought Derek directly against his prostate. Another stumble, this one longer and louder.

Stiles loved the faces Derek made when they fucked. Sometimes, when it got too intense, his eyes would flash red and his fangs would lengthen, and Stiles should be worried that he got off on that, but he just couldn’t muster the energy to care. This was his alpha, his _mate_ , so _excuse him_ if he found the wolf a turn on.

“ _Mine_ ,” Derek growled.

Stiles nodded frantically, grabbing one of Derek’s hands and bringing it to Stiles’ dick. “ _Yours_ , yours. Only yours, baby.”

Derek’s chest rumbled when he found Stiles rock hard and dripping. He tightened his fist, started a quick and efficient rhythm, and if it happened to match Stiles’ heartbeat then, well. The other man threw his head back, begging Derek to bite it, and when he did, Stiles came with a loud sob.

Snarling, Derek let go of Stiles to grip his thighs instead. He pounded into him, losing focus on anything that wasn’t Stiles, limp and grinning beneath him. Stiles, of course, couldn’t resist pushing Derek.

“Yeah dude, that’s right. Take me. I’m… your fu-fucking… oh- _mate_.”

Hearing Stiles say mate made Derek’s tempo falter. He whined against Stiles’ forehead and then kissed it, completely sweet and opposite of the dirty things his hips were doing.

A few well-placed thrusts later, Derek’s vision grayed out as he came. He pulsed long and hot, his cum filling Stiles up. His breath came in heaving, hiccupping gasps, his nose buried in Stiles’ hair, his body giving out and keening him sideways. Stiles would never admit it, but he loved the feel of Derek coming inside him. He loved knowing his ass was full of Derek, that he smelled like his mate, that something of Derek’s was in him even when they weren’t connected.

Stiles loved this part. He loved the other part too, _obviously_ , but Derek always got really cuddly and possessive after sex, and it just gave Stiles a lot of _feelings_. Now was no exception.

Derek curled himself around Stiles and he pulled in long draws of breath through his nose. Stiles rolled his eyes. “You know, it’s a good thing I’m weird, because other people might be offended by you smelling them all the time.” Derek just grunted.

And just like every other time, Derek started to trace little figures in Stiles’ secretions. Another werewolf thing; Derek really liked playing with jizz. If it made him happy, who was Stiles to object? Derek’s chest rumbled against Stiles. And there was another thing—Derek _purred_.

Everything was quiet, save for their heartbeats settling back to normal and their breath calming. Stiles was just about to fall asleep when Derek spoke, so low that Stiles almost missed it.

“It’s… Kate.”

Kate? Kate who? “Kate who?” Stiles’ brain was foggy and his limbs were heavy and it was too hard to think right now.

Stiles felt Derek take a deep breath. “I was sixteen when she…. She came up to me in a bar one night. Danced with me. We went… we went back to her place and she took my virginity. She told me she loved me and then four months later I woke up alone. No Kate, no Mom, no Lily or James or Leo. Just me. Me and Laura.”

_True, I'm a walking disaster. They told you to stay away._

Stiles turned around in Derek’s arms, squeezed his eyes shut, shoved his face into the sweaty slick skin of Derek’s neck. He was awake now, violently jolted from his post-orgasmic haze. Awake and speechless. Well, almost speechless.

“I love you.”

What Stiles really wanted to say was “It wasn’t your fault, it could never be your fault,” and “I’ll love you until the end of time,” and “You deserve everything in the world,” and “Everything’s okay,” and “Kate, that fucking bitch, fucking fucker!” But this was one of those rare situations where three words conveyed all of those things; especially three words that he had never had the courage to say aloud until now. Somewhere along this journey with Derek, he had discovered that a few, well-placed words could mean more than a whole paragraph of nonsense.

Derek did hear all of Stiles’ unspoken thoughts. And he responded by grasping Stiles’ chin gently in his hand and kissing him. This was not a competition. It was sweet, and slow, and gentle. It was “I love you.”

The kiss melted into languid, pecking presses of lips and sharing each other’s breath. Their foreheads were touching and both their eyes were closed when Derek finally spoke.

“Me too.”

_So just forget!_

* * *

  **Memories That Fade Like Photographs**

_Stiles was in college, Derek was starting a career, and they were finally getting the hang of the whole relationship thing._

It became a thing. Stiles said “I love you” about four times in an hour, rushed over the telephone and soft during morning sex. Derek didn’t. He always responded with a “me too” (or a grunt as in, “Stiles thank you I love you too but fuck I can’t even breath right now because you're so _tight_ so shut up”). Derek had yet to say the three words, but Stiles didn’t push it because he knew what that it all meant the same thing.

One day, though, when they were quietly curled around each other after a hard day at work (for Derek) and school (for Stiles), Derek explained.

“It’s… I…” Derek paused, took a deep breath as if to muster the courage, “Every time I say those words, someone ends up dead.”

Stiles looked up sharply from where he was nuzzling Derek’s chest. His mind whirled (Derek had an innate ability to just say things from left field, no explanation, and expect Stiles to pick up on what he meant, and Stiles had now known Derek long enough to follow his silent train of thought, but it still took him a few minutes to catch up) and then he shrugged. “It’s cool. I’d rather not end up in a ditch somewhere just because you see just how wonderful I am.”

And then Stiles kissed him, and after a 69 that left them both panting, Stiles whispered, “I love you,” into the crook of Derek’s elbow. Derek said, “I lo—me too.”

~.~

So it’s all kind of ironic when Stiles ends up attacked by a harpy two days later.

Stiles was minding his own business, pumping his gas and tapping his foot impatiently. He had his iPod on shuffle; currently, _Memories That Fade Like Photographs_ was thumping in his ear. He found himself humming along to the chorus. “ _I could be nothing but a memory to you. Don't let this memory fade away_.”

It was dark and Stiles was bored; he hated getting gas. Maybe it was the smell, maybe it was because he always felt like a little kid playing adult (even though he was now 20 years old)—whatever the reason, he hated it. He pouted as the dollar amount steadily rose. Damn. He needed to get more hours at the bookstore on campus.

He should know not to get gas alone at nine-twenty-two at night by now. Nothing good happens at creepy gas stations when the streetlights are on. At least that’s what he told himself when his feet lifted off the ground, two inhumanly strong claws clutching tightly to his shoulders.

Yeah, he was kind of embarrassed about the screech that he emitted. But really, he was suspended over Beacon Hills by some weird, flying monster. And his iPod was probably cracked now, ruined on the asphalt. And his car was still running. And the nozzle was still in it, pumping away. God, he was never going to be able to fix his jeep after this one.

His flight was short. Not a minute later, he was falling fast through nothingness. He squeezed his eyes shut, regretfully musing that this was a really pussy way to die. He hit the ground with a thump and a groan.

He turned his face into the damp earth, moaning and trying to move so that he could lever himself up. His stomach gave a sharp protest. He groaned again, muttering a curse; if he had to guess, he had broken a rib in the fall. At least he wasn’t dead—good. They must not have been that high up. Speaking of they, what _was_ that?

He didn’t have to wait long to find out. An enormous eagle-like body emerged from the inky night. It came to stand over him, letting out little bouts of cackling laughter, its wings ruffling against its body as if impatient or… amused.

When it got close enough for Stiles to see properly in the poor lighting, he wished he hadn’t asked what it was. The thing had a bird’s body, equipped with deadly talons and shimmering, dark colored feathers, but its face… it was half-human.

Maybe Stiles shouldn’t judge half-breeds too harshly, since both his boyfriend and his best friend were mutts (ha, dog joke. Too bad nobody was there to witness it; that was a good one, too!). But this creature was literally a mix of human and bird, meshing together in the ugliest of ways. Its human head was one of a crone, wrinkled with a long, hooked nose and bushy eyebrows. Stiles had once thought that the whole ugly witch/old lady thing was a hoax; the supernatural had since proven him so, so wrong.

She (?) advanced on him slowly, as if drawing out the experience. Her eyes were delighted as she took in Stiles’ prone form. She laughed again, wickedly, and it made his head hurt.

“My, my, what is a pretty little thing like you doing out alone at night?” she taunted. Stiles knew he couldn’t move or he would risk sending his broken rib through a vital organ. He liked his organs exactly how they were, whole and mushy, thank you. But that meant he couldn’t run away easily. Which meant he might die here anyway.

“I was getting gas. You know, car? That big hunk of metal that gets me from place to place so I don’t have to bust my ass trying to walk everywhere? It needs gas to run. If I waited any longer I would have had to call Derek to come pick me up, because Wanda’s a great jeep and all but she doesn’t like to run on empty for too long. What’s a… ferocious thing like you doing out alone in Beacon Hills?” Stiles tried to make his voice as non-threatening as possible. He shifted himself so that he was sitting with his back against a tree.

She cackled some more and started moving—prancing?—around him. Stiles really wanted to ask her to stop because she was making him dizzy. Maybe he had a concussion? But he didn’t dare for fear that it would offend her and she would rip his head off with her feet. So he just sat there, waited for her to do something with him. He hoped Derek would find him soon. He was tired and he just wanted to cuddle up and watch _Whose Line Is It Anyway_ until he dozed off. Derek had to know he was in trouble. The mate bond would tell him. Right?

“Do you know why I brought you here, little human?” she asked. Her voice was screechy, like nails on a blackboard and girls when they see a cute pair of shoes and tires squealing all in one sound. He winced, shook his head. “You stink of werewolf. _Alpha_ werewolf.” She said _alpha_ like it was a curse, spitting it out as if she didn’t like the taste of it. “Werewolves are territorial and irate beings. They are easy to irritate. I feed off of that, the anger inside of others. It is like… like cow parts are to humans.”

She kept prancing around him, light on her feet. She hopped almost like a chicken, if Stiles was honest. Did she just say that she kidnapped him to piss of Derek so that she could eat his anger? Ugh, supernatural weirdos.

“Look, that’s cool and all, but I’d really like to just go home and eat some cow parts myself and maybe have sex with my boyfriend. So could you like, let me go? Because I piss Derek off enough without all of this. I can just call you over the next time we get in a fight. I’m sure you’ll only have to wait like, 17 hours at the most,” Stiles said. He watched her eyes for a minute and then clutched his stomach, wheezing out in pain. Stupid broken bones.

She laughed again, throwing her head back. At least someone thought he was funny. “That is not how it works, tiny mortal. _I_ need to upset him.”

Stiles saw an opening and went for it. “Well, why can’t you just upset me instead? I’m already a little pissed off anyways. So you could feed off of my irate-ness or whatever and then we can just go our separate ways. You’ll be full and I’ll be alive. And in my pajamas, hopefully.” But she only shook her ugly head at him and frowned.

“You are all bones and skin. You are a human with no standing. You will only sate me for a few hours. An alpha is powerful. He will keep me nourished for weeks.”

That actually kind of hurt. He did too matter! He was an alpha’s mate for Christ’s sake. He was second-in-command in the pack. The betas _deferred_ to Stiles. “I’m an alpha’s mate for Christ’s sake!”

She huffed in exasperation. “You are beginning to bore me, human.”

Stiles screamed. Her serrated nails sliced through the denim on his leg, sunk into the meaty part of his thigh, and sliced viciously. His leg felt like it was on fire and he clutched at it desperately. The blood quickly soaked through his jeans and covered his hands. It was all he could do not to barf when the smell of iron hit his nose.

She raised her other foot, her expression _uninterested_. Stiles thought he blacked out somewhere in between that and the loud snarling noises he heard later.

When he became fully aware of his surroundings, he was being carried bridal style. An arm held the backs of his knees carefully and another was wrapped around his back, holding him up. Stiles’ head was propped on Derek’s chest but he couldn’t control his neck functions. Everything throbbed, but it wasn’t the sharp pain of before.

“D’d you… wolfy-powers?” Stiles mumbled.

Derek shushed him, pressed a kiss to the top of Stiles’ head. It was then that Stiles realized Derek was running.

“I’m gonna get you to the hospital. You’re going to be okay, Stiles.” Derek voice was low when he spoke and to an untrained ear it was flat and monotone. But Stiles knew better; Derek was barely controlling his panic.

“‘m okay, Der. See? ‘m still talking,” Stiles slurred against Derek’s chest.

Stiles felt Derek shake his head so that Stiles’ hair ruffled. “Stop. Just… conserve your energy, okay? Sleep,” the wolf demanded.

Even though his body was wrecked and his mate was freaking out, Stiles was exhausted, and he found himself slipping into sleep.

“Derek?” he whispered, on the edge of reality and dreams.

“Mm?” Derek hummed back, his chest rumbling under Stiles’ head. Stiles really hoped they made it to the hospital soon so that both of them could sleep.

“I love you.” Stiles’ words were muffled by the cotton of Derek’s shirt and by the stifling drowsiness, but Derek still heard them. Derek was actively trying to avoid a panic attack so that he could focus on Stiles, but his mate wasn’t looking good. The harpy had all but gutted Stiles. Hearing those words made his wolf settle just enough so that he could navigate his way through the woods.

“Me too,” Derek whispered. “Me too,” he repeated, as though saying the words would ensure that Stiles would be fine. “Me too,” Derek’s voice cracked.

He couldn’t lose someone else—especially not Stiles, his mate, his everything. He just _couldn’t_.

* * *

  **Under A Paper Moon**

_They’d been together for four years. It was Stiles’ senior year of college. And the pack was growing up._

_I'm building a place_  
 _Something amazing just for the sake of saving us_  
 _And whatever's left of that little box that beats in your chest_

It had been a tough week.

Lydia and Isaac had gotten into a fight on Saturday and neither coped very well. Isaac stayed at Derek’s for a few nights, hiding in the scent of pack and under a multitude of pillows. Lydia alternated between bitching at Stiles about men and her insanely hard college classes and going binge shopping. All that Stiles understood, in between the sniffles and cuddles from Isaac and the snark from Lydia, was that it had something to do with Isaac’s refusal to sell his old house.

On Monday, Allison’s pregnancy hormones had caused her to lash out at Erica; Erica had, in turn, wolfed out. The full moon was only a few days away, and while they had all learned control by now, Erica was on edge because Boyd had left to visit family for a few days and, on top of it, her period was two weeks late. Scott had been slashed across the face while trying to protect his wife.

Stiles visited his dad on Tuesday. John knew all about werewolves, so that hadn’t been an issue for a few years now. The sheriff was, however, dating Melissa McCall. Which he told Stiles on Tuesday, with her there. And that normally wouldn’t bother Stiles; he loved Mrs. McCall and he thought of her like his second mother already, and he was happy his dad was getting back into the ring. What he wasn’t okay with, though, was the fact that the two had been dating secretly for _six months_.

Thursday was one of the most tension-filled full moons in four years. Neither Lydia nor Allison came; Allison felt guilty, though she was still partially upset that Erica couldn’t control herself enough to put the baby first. Lydia was too stubborn to deal with Isaac. Erica was ashamed at her slip-up, hurt that Allison was still punishing her for it (because, come on, Erica had forgiven Allison for nearly _murdering_ her mate and her), and freaking the fuck out because she might be pregnant and she had no idea what to do with babies. Boyd was confused as to what was going on with his fiancée, Isaac looked like a kicked puppy and whined all night because Lydia wasn’t there, and Derek looked like he wanted to hit something. For God’s sake, he thought they were over this high school nonsense.

Today was Friday. It was pack date night. Stiles thanked his lucky stars that Lydia and Isaac had worked everything out last night. Isaac had shown up on Lydia’s (well, theirs, because Isaac lived in the apartment too) doorstep at four in the morning after the full moon had started to lose its impact. Erica was taking a pregnancy test with Boyd for their date night. Allison and Scott were out looking at cribs.

So it was with a great sigh that Stiles walked into the living room, shut the front door behind him with a thud, and collapsed onto the couch with his school bag still in his hand.

He was exhausted; after their run last night, he hadn’t gone to bed until five and had woken up at eight to go to class at ten. Stiles was a senior now, applying to jobs at elementary schools and praying he didn’t fail his last classes ever. That day, he had gotten a C on the last test he took in his stupid physics class and had been asked for another copy of his transcript from Beacon Hills Elementary, his first choice job. He was hoping for the first grade post that they had open, but he kept telling himself that preschool wasn’t _that_ bad if you ignored all the potential for potty training accidents and all the throw up he would undoubtedly have to deal with. So yeah, Stiles was pretty much ready for mac and cheese and bed.

When Derek popped his head out of the kitchen wearing a ‘bite me’ apron, Stiles decided that his plans for the evening were flexible.

“I made dinner. I thought we could watch a movie after, or I could give you a massage or something. You look stressed,” Derek called, brandishing a spatula.

Stiles grinned and sat up, cracking his back. “That sounds beautiful. Whatcha make, sugar? I hope it isn’t lasagna… the last time you tried that, it took me four hours to scrape all the burnt sauce off. I keep telling you, don’t put glass in the microwave. Oh, you’ve got a little schmoots right there,” Stiles said, leaning in to lick a smudge of butter off of Derek’s chin. Stiles sighed playfully, leaning forward to catch the other man by his hips and kiss him hello.

When Stiles started to climb Derek like a tree, Derek pulled back with a grunt. “No. We can do that later. I have to go check on the garlic bread. Go sit at the table, I’ll be there in a minute.”

Derek, for lack of a better word, _sauntered_ away, his ass swinging as he went. Lord, there was something completely edible about his mate in a damn _apron_ , cooking for him. Even though Derek had been sketching out ideas for the new park in town all day (Stiles still got fuzzy thinking about how his boyfriend was a damned architect because shit, how sexy was that?), he was still taking care of Stiles. And Derek says that he isn’t a domestic wolf. Pshht.

With nothing else to do and banished from the kitchen, Stiles followed his mate’s orders and went to go sit at the dining room table. They never sat in the dining room to eat; it was only used when the pack was over because it was the only table that was large enough to sit them all. When it was just Derek and Stiles, they usually sat at the island in the kitchen. But tonight, the table had a dark blue tablecloth lain over it, two candlesticks in the middle, and the nice plates set out. There was even a bottle of merlot (Stiles was finally legal, and he liked drinking because it made him feel like he could close the gap between their five year age difference).

Moist breath wafted over the back of his neck. A nose ghosted over his too-long hair, scenting him. Stiles smiled, turned his head so that Derek could press a closed-mouth kiss to the back of his shoulder through his thin tee. Derek reached around him to put down a plate and when Stiles looked, he nearly moaned. Derek had made the garlic bread exactly how Stiles liked it—covered with melted cheese and topped with a little parmesan.

Derek’s other hand put down a bowl of gorgeous shrimp scampi. When Stiles saw it, he actually _did_ moan. There were condiments and a salad already on the table, so the men sat down next across from each other. Derek started to dish out their food and Stiles poured the wine. They moved around each other gracefully, as if they were always aware of what the other one was doing and compensated for it.

That was probably one of Stiles’ favorite thing about being mated—he understood Derek, from Derek’s minute movements to the dimple in his stubbly cheek to the millions of hidden emotions that flashed across Derek’s face on any given day.

He understood why Derek didn’t eat grilled vegetables and why he scented Stiles so much, why he hadn’t had sex with a woman in nearly a decade. The layout of Derek’s house and why the candles on the table weren’t lit made sense to him. He got why Derek drove mindlessly on the same days every year, he got why Derek woke up some nights screaming, he got why Derek folded his clothes instead of hung them. He _understood_.

They never really talked much when they ate. Stiles was always too busy with his food, rearranging it on his plate, making new flavor combinations, dissecting the spices. Derek was content to eat and look at Stiles. He appreciated the way Stiles’ hands never stopped moving, even when he ate, the way Stiles’ eyes flickered when he recognized a spice he liked, the way Stiles’ mouth stretched around his fork (fuck, Derek wanted to watch that mouth stretch around his _dick_ ), the way Stiles moaned when he tasted something delicious.

With every sip of wine and every bite of deliciousness, Stiles unwound from his day. Derek’s hand cramped from where it had been curled around his pencil all day, but having Stiles near once more had the ache in his joints easing. When they were finished, both looked like they were about to fall asleep at the table.

They cleaned up together, and that’s when they started to talk. This was normal for them, routine.

“Scott called today,” Derek mentioned casually, elbow-deep in suds.

“Mm?” Stiles muttered. He went back to the other room to bring in more plates.

“He was having another crisis about parenthood. Asked me all these questions. He wanted to know if it would come out claws first if it was a werewolf.” Stiles could hear the scoff in Derek’s voice even from the other room.

Stiles chuckled. “Yeah, that’s our Scotty-boy. Thinks his kid is gonna shred Allison’s vagina on its way out,” Stiles said as he brought in the condiments, the butter teetering precariously on top of the Italian dressing.

Derek rolled his eyes and nodded towards the paper towels. “Can you hand me some of those?”

And so their night went. Stiles didn’t like to clean in relative silence, so he flicked the stereo to life. Stiles laughed when _Under A Paper Moon_ came on. This was one of All Time Low’s old cds now but it was a good one. Derek rolled his eyes. The alpha didn’t hate the band, but he still preferred The Grateful Dead.

Stiles sang while he worked. And danced. Seductively.

“ _I'm building a place, something amazing just for the sake of saving us from under the sun. Two plastic hearts with nowhere to run. We're rolling the dice on whatever's left, 'cause God only knows that we could use the rest_ ….” Stiles was off-key and his head bobbed. His hips wiggled, shimmied, rolled with the music in a way that would have been ridiculous if it hadn’t made Derek so damn _hard_.

By the time they were done, Stiles had belted out four songs and had bruised his elbow by bumping into a cabinet during a particularly painful looking twist. Derek had adjusted his jeans nine times and had restrained from fucking Stiles against the counter only by telling himself that he could take his time with Stiles upstairs, in a bed.

Minutes later, Derek found himself plastered to the bedroom wall, pinned by Stiles’ mouth and the hard press of Stiles’ cock against Derek’s. The kiss was wet and sloppy, a mess of tongues and lips. Stiles pushed Derek into the wall with his hips again, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from Derek when the sharp edge of Stiles’ zipper caught on the bulge in Derek’s jeans. Their movements were languid, almost as if treasuring each slide of tongue-against-tongue and each whisper of a caress. Derek’s hands slid over Stiles’ ass, down his flanks, over his shoulders, across his hips while the other man mouthed at the sharp curve of Derek’s chin.

Derek’s teeth caught on the sensitive skin behind Stiles’ earlobe and Stiles hips stuttered forward. Derek’s nose flared at the sharp change in his mate’s scent. Whenever Stiles was horny, he stunk of pumpkin pie. Derek, paranoid that being turned on by the smell of a favorite Thanksgiving desert was unnatural, had googled it once. Apparently, science had proven pumpkin pie to be the most sexually arousing smell to men. The back part of his brain, the one where he had boxed up his old memories of his family and taped/stapled/plastered them shut, tried to remind him that his mom and his youngest sister had always made pumpkin pie together on snow days off from school. Derek heartily ignored that. He didn’t know why Stiles specifically smelled like pie, but the spicy, warm scent made Derek want to sink right in. It never failed to make Derek growl and pull Stiles up the stairs.

Two strong hands—declawed, thankfully—shoved Stiles down onto the bed. His lean body bounced on impact. “Woah, there, caveman. No need to get pushy. Use your words dude. You know, like normal people? What, were you raised by wolves or something?”

Stiles laughed, the sound easy and lilting in the comfort of their bedroom. Derek found himself smiling too. Stiles did that to him. In the words of John Green (yes, Derek had read _An Abundance of Katherines_ , but in his defense, it was only because Allison had left the book at his house and Derek had been _really_ bored one day while Stiles was at school), “That  _smile could_  end wars and cure cancer”. Stiles’ mouth, curved in a ‘u’, flashing beautifully white teeth, pink, full lips stretched wide around the chuckles that jolted Stiles’ diaphragm, brought other things to Derek’s mind that had nothing to do with war or cancer and everything to do with Derek’s dick.

It really wasn’t a surprise when Stiles ended up with those same lips wrapped around Derek’s cock. He looked so perfect there, his body nestled in between Derek’s legs and his eyes bright with lust. Stiles loved to watch Derek’s face as Stiles blew him. He had once explained that Derek’s facial expressions in bed were often the most open expressions Derek gave all day. That, and it made Stiles ridiculously horny to watch Derek’s face twist in almost-painful ecstasy. Derek didn’t complain—having Stiles eyes on his face made everything so much more intense, so much more intimate.

“Mmm baby you taste so good,” Stiles mumbled, his voice scratchy and wrecked. Derek’s hips thrust sharply upwards, stabbing Stiles in the throat, and Stiles just chuckled in response. He knew that Derek got off on Stiles’ random (and often terrible) dirty talk.

Stiles also had a habit of making ridiculously sexual noises while swallowing around Derek. Each moan and groan reverberated through Derek like a jackhammer, a steady flow of electrical current that had Derek holding back his orgasm. When it got to be too much, Derek pulled Stiles off with a yank on his shaggy hair.

“Aw man, really? I was having fun,” Stiles protested. Derek responded with a groan of his own, pulling Stiles up and flipping them over so that Stiles was laying on his stomach.

“Yeah well, if you didn’t stop I was going to come down your throat in two seconds,” Derek replied, dropping kisses down Stiles’ spine. Stiles hummed into the pillow at the feeling.

“Wha’s so wrong with that?” Stiles murmured. He felt drugged, weighed down by a heavy blanket of arousal, exhaustion, and Derek. His dick strained against the bed sheets, begging to be touched, but Derek ignored the poor, weeping thing and licked a sloppy line from the curve of Stiles’ ass to the back of his balls. Stiles let out a muffled sob and arched his ass into Derek’s mouth. Derek wasted no time in pulling Stiles’ cheeks apart and swirling his tongue around the soft, puckered skin there.

Stiles thrashed, bucked, tightened his fingers into fists of bedding. “ _Fuck_ , Der. I want you so bad. Want you inside me. I n-need it. Come on, come on, ugnnn touch me _please_. ‘m so hard, feels s-ssso good. Need… umf… _please_ Derek.”

Most of the time, Stiles didn’t even know what he was begging for. More, harder, deeper. Something. Something beyond the endlessly frustrating pounding behind his eyeballs and throbbing in his gut. Something _more_. Something only Derek knew and only Derek could give.

It made Derek crazy, hearing Stiles cry out for _him_ , beg for _him_. It was Derek who satisfied his mate. The deep primal urge to take intensified. The wolf wanted to claim Stiles and wanted to give him everything. It wanted to take, sate, mark, devour. The wolf wanted to turn Stiles inside out and make him Derek’s, completely and totally. Maybe that was a little wrong, a little scary, but neither man could be bothered by that when it felt so right.

Derek’s tongue made stabbing pokes at Stiles, opening him up in practiced and assured movements. Rimming Stiles was one of his favorite things, even if his jaw did start to ache by the end (werewolf powers be damned, fucking someone’s ass with your tongue for twenty minutes starts to get uncomfortable). He curled inwards, searching along the edges that made Stiles shake.

Long minutes passed where the only sounds were the wet suck of Derek’s mouth and Stiles’ heavy puffs of breath. Somewhere along the way, Stiles started to keen and grab at the pillow by his face with long fingers that couldn’t decide if they wanted to push away or pull closer.

It was too much and not enough all at the same time. “Gonna… Derek I’m ready. I’m ready, come on, fuck me, fill me up. Shit I need you inside me.”

Derek pulled away just as Stiles felt himself slip off the edge. Stiles cried out in a frustrated, high-pitched noise, both happy that Derek was moving on to something more satisfying and irritated by his orgasm denial. Derek smirked into the soft curves of Stiles’ back dimples, shifted so that he was lying completely over Stiles’ back and pressing him into the mattress.

Their dicks were a matching, shiny purple-red. Derek dropped a soft kiss to the back of Stiles’ neck and reached one hand between Stiles and the bed. His palm curled around Stiles’ hip, his hand so big that his fingers brushed against the soft skin at the base of Stiles’ cock. The light brush of fingertips had Stiles’ back arching into Derek’s chest, his forehead scrunched up in pleasure-pain.

The werewolf used his other hand to urge Stiles up. They repositioned themselves so that Stiles was on all fours, his head hanging between his shoulders. Derek could hear Stiles panting in anticipation; the noise boomed in his ears, filled his head, struck a part of him like steel hitting flint. He needed to take Stiles _now_.

Derek reached a hand down, grabbed himself, and lined up so that the head nudged against Stiles’ sensitive, spit-soaked hole. In one movement, Derek thrust forward and filled Stiles to the hilt.

They both stopped breathing. Stiles’ knuckles turned white around his grip on the comforter. Derek’s eyes flashed as he tamped down his wolf’s howling. Once they had adjusted and Stiles begged for Derek to move—“Derek, if you don’t start moving in two seconds I’m _going_ to kill you. Oh my god, you asshole, come on!”—Derek’s hips began to rock in steady, aborted movements.

Stiles’ arms shook with the effort it took to hold himself up. He loved this, the feel of Derek inside him, Derek behind him, Derek around him. He could feel the other man’s legs encasing his own, the coarse hair tickling his thighs. Derek had one hand still on Stiles’ hip and the other splayed on the center of Stiles back as if holding him down. Psht, like Stiles would, or could, go anywhere.

Steadily, rocking morphed into thrusting. Stiles’ knees slid with every fast-paced jab, his whole body rocking forward and backward with the force. Derek used the hand on Stiles’ hip to move Stiles the way Derek wanted him.

Stiles was always so pliable, so submissive. Whether it was by nature or in reaction to the alpha wolf, neither knew, but it felt fucking amazing when Derek dominated Stiles like this.

Stiles got louder and more aggressive as Derek did. Derek always got more vocal (Derek’s version of vocal was usually growling and words forced through a locked jaw) as they went on. Each thrust accompanied a noise, whether it was “ _fuck_ ” or “ _Stiles_ ” or “ _God_ ” or a pained groan. Every new sound from Derek caused an accompanying one from Stiles. And then the cycle started over again.

Stiles felt himself climbing. He was so hot. Derek was hitting his prostate with every powerful slam and Stiles really wasn’t sure how much more he could take.

“I need… Derek… _touch_ me please,” Stiles begged.

He was half out of his mind with need. His back was bent downwards towards the bed, his ass pushing back onto Derek. Their rhythm started to falter into staccato pulses as they neared the end of their resistance. Derek felt his wolf begin to pace. Stiles felt that elusive, tingling spiral in his gut tighten.

Derek knew he was close. “Need you to come with me,” Derek grunted, out of breath as he tried to concentrate on his pace. It was hard to think with Stiles’ wet heat surrounding him.

He moved his hand from Stiles back and nudged Stiles’ legs further apart with his knees. The shift brought Derek even deeper and Stiles swore it felt like Derek was pounding into his throat, Derek was so far inside him.

A hand grabbed Stiles firmly and slid in the wetness that had been leaking for twenty minutes. Stiles’ hips thrust forward into the friction, he screamed out a loud, “ohmygod!”, and he almost cried in relief. His dick gave a spurt of precum—it was weeping in relief, too.

Derek gave no false pretenses. He started a quick, aggressive pace in time with his thrusts. In no time, Derek could smell the tangy, nectarine scent that meant Stiles was going to come in approximately five seconds.

In four point three seconds, Stiles gave a shout and came in short, pulsing bursts that covered Derek’s hand and the bed sheets. Stiles whole body shook, his arms giving out underneath him. The fell to the bed in a heap.

Derek continued to thrust—deep, powerful lunges that had Stiles groaning in fierce aftershocks that wracked his oversensitive body. Derek chased his own orgasm relentlessly. He was _so_ close. If he could just—

Stiles reached a shaky, weak hand around his back. He wrapped his fingers around Derek’s dick, the edge of his hand resting on where his hole stretched wide around the intrusion. The added stimulation had Derek shattering with a vicious, wild howl.

Laying there—exhausted, wrecked, gulping in air—Stiles was glad that his night turned out this way. _This_ was the perfect way to end a terrible week. 

* * *

**Time Bomb**

Back in the present, Derek had his nose buried in Stiles’ neck and pressed against the cotton of the band tee that Stiles was wearing and the sharp edge of Stiles’ collarbone. His tongue flicked out to lick at the perspiration that dotted Stiles’ skin. Stiles just hummed, angled his head closer so that he could catch Derek’s lips in a kiss.

People were all around them; arms knocked against Stiles and hips bumped into Derek’s back. It was another one of the reasons Derek hated concerts. Too many people getting their weird non-pack stench all over his mate.

They were pressed tightly together from head to foot. Stiles was standing between Derek’s legs, Stiles’ back against Derek’s chest. Derek’s hands kept Stiles close to him, slotted securely over Stiles’ hips, and the other man’s hands came down to cover them. Stiles had maneuvered his head away so that Derek could take solace in his mate’s smell instead of the overwhelming stench of tightly-packed bodies.

At the moment, Alex was serenading the crowd, the sweet chords of _Remembering Sunday_ reverberating against the decrepit walls of the theatre. Derek eyed the roof skeptically, wondering if the whole place would just cave in. He made an escape plan just in case. Stiles, on the other hand, closed his eyes against the beautiful sounds blanketing him. The song was lovely and tragic, and though Stiles had no personal connection to it, no story to go along with it, it was one of his favorite songs simply because of its pure and quiet sadness.

The crowd was mostly silent. A few phones went up in the air, their bright screens lighting up the dark room so as to mimic the lighters of earlier times. When the last note hung suspended in stillness, Stiles let himself fall back against his boyfriend and pressed their lips tightly together.

This was his college graduation gift. The only way Stiles could get Derek to come with him to an All Time Low concert was if it was for some big celebration, a big, sacrificial gift of love that Derek was giving to Stiles.

He had graduated last Friday, actually; he’d only had his degree for four days. He was officially a licensed teacher. In August, he would set up his classroom, and in September, he would teach his very own class of twenty-six six-year-olds. His dad had already bought him a membership to the local student-teacher store and had given him two hundred bucks to buy supplies for his classroom as his graduation gift. Stiles had never been afraid of children before, not even when he had been an assistant teacher, but now that he was faced with his own class, he was scared shitless.

But that was months from now. At the moment, his mate was busying himself by tracing the freckles on Stiles’ chin and cheek with his tongue. The song changed. The new drum sequence was upbeat and almost seductive. Or maybe it wasn’t really sexy, but Stiles pretty much thought that anything could be called hot when he could feel Derek’s dick pressing (yup, he was definitely hard) into the curve of his ass.

It didn’t really surprise either of them when they ended up in the surprisingly clean bathroom of the old warehouse. The bathroom was empty, thankfully, and they blindly stumbled into a stall. Their wee preoccupied, tugging at clothes and smoothing over skin, and their mouths bit at each other’s lips. That seemed far more important than watching where they were going. Presently, Stiles had one foot on the toilet seat and the other against the door, spreading himself wide open in an uncomfortable and acrobatic pose.

As Derek mouthed at Stiles’ jaw and mimicked through their clothes how Derek would fuck him later, Stiles absently noted the chicken scratch on the door an inch above his foot. “ _Call Steve for a good time 204-566-7892_ ”. Stiles grinned against the tickling sensation of Derek’s scruff (he _still_ refused to shave, even though he was nearly thirty years old). He didn’t need Steve—he had Derek.

Impatiently, with the thrum of the bass making the stall shake, they tugged each other’s jeans down just far enough so they could reach their hands inside. Of course Stiles was wearing those stupid skinny jeans. They would really be the death of Derek one day.

Stiles’ fingers shamelessly tightened around Derek’s dick, stroking him in quick, assured thrusts with a practiced twist at the end that never failed to make Derek tremble.

Derek’s fingers slid into Stiles easily, two and then three, and he curled them up in a way that never failed to make Stiles’ heartbeat stutter.

Stiles was still slick and open from when they had fucked while getting dressed for the concert (just seeing those jeans had made Derek’s cock jump) so it was an easy and quick prep.

It was messy and quick. They used little lube and no condom because their travel bottle was almost empty and Derek was a werewolf and Stiles had been a virgin before Derek. Besides, they loved being able to feel each other without an irritating latex barrier. Derek never liked being confined (Stiles thought that it was because it went against Derek’s natural werewolfy instincts). Stiles loved feeling Derek’s natural heat permeate him from the inside out.

Derek’s thrusts were bruising. The whole stall shook with force of Stiles slamming against it. Stiles was spread wide and stretched tight in a weird position but he found his balls tightening nonetheless.

It was dirty and delicious. All Time Low had started to blast _Time Bomb_ and Stiles even found himself singing along to it while Derek fucked him.

“We were just a—fugnnn—time bomb set into mmmotion,” Stiles groaned breathlessly against Derek’s lips. He could practically hear Derek roll his eyes as he gave a particularly hard thrust. “D-d-destined to explode. Oh fuck make me explode Der, come on, please! Give it to me! Yes, _yes_!”

If Stiles started to shout scandalously, he couldn’t be blamed. Besides, it was so loud that nobody would hear him. And it made Derek’s stomach jolt with arousal and his teeth gnash together, so Stiles definitely wasn’t regretting anything.

When Derek’s hands tightened around Stiles’ hips (Stiles could practically feel the bruises being made) and licked into Stiles’ mouth while simultaneously jerking Stiles’ dick with one final, wet twist, they came together, abruptly and intensely.

The last chords of the song settled around them as they lay slumped on top of each other. “ _But I need it, wouldn’t have it any other way_ ,” Stiles murmured breathlessly to the song. They laughed together, an exhausted chuckle that was both beautiful and drained.

Later, when they collapsed in bed together covered in sweat and the smell of other people, Stiles tucked his head under Derek’s chin and hummed in contentment. It had been seven years (and a shit ton of supernatural senselessness) since he met Derek, and they were just as in love as ever. They would probably never get married, because who needed a piece of paper to tell them that they were perfect for each other, but Stiles knew that down the road they would adopt or surrogate children. They would have their pack and their little babies (were or not, it didn’t matter) and they would be happy.

Curled around each other, naked and drifting in and out of sleep, they muttered their daily goodnights.

“Love you,” Stiles slurred against Derek’s collarbone.

“Me too.”

They still had a ways to go, and maybe Derek never would be able to say those three words, but neither of them would have had it any other way. Their lives weren’t perfect.

But they had each other. Forever. 

**Author's Note:**

> I may or may not have stolen certain ideas from other fics, because let’s face it, I’ve read a lot of Sterek. I have somewhat integrated some ideas into my own otp world, and that may have come out here. If I stole your idea or you think I did, I’m sorry, I’m crediting you here! I know for a fact I got the idea of Derek not being able to light candles from some story I recently read. 
> 
> All rights to the songs are All Time Low’s alone. I don’t own any characters or recognized plot lines; I only like to make them do devious things together in my imagination. 
> 
> There is no explicitly stated underage relationships; Derek and Stiles finally get together when Stiles is 18. There are, however, underage drinking and drunkenness, potential triggers when Stiles nearly has a panic attack multiple times/thinks about his mom, and near-death scenarios.
> 
> Cannon-typical violence is mentioned.
> 
> Explicit homosexual sex scenes are included.
> 
> Quite a lot of swearing slipped its way in here. 
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed it!


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